


For Purity (Dresden Files/Worm SI)

by PridakArbiter



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Gen, Pregnancy, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24898354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PridakArbiter/pseuds/PridakArbiter
Summary: Most would not expect to wake up with a blackened denarius from Dresden Files in their pocket. Even more would not expect to wake up in the body of Purity, a future enforcer for the largest gang in Worm's Brockton Bay.Even worse, this whole adventure is set before canon starts.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	1. The Image on the Coin

The crescent moon hung like a scythe over the night sky, casting pale light across the city below. I hated it for lingering like a haunting specter, a solitary witness.

These hands were not my hands. Even in the pale sidereal light, I could see clearly enough. Everything gleamed around me, and that was part of the problem. These hands were pale and untarnished.

This body was not my body, it was too small. I cupped my hands around myself, in what would have looked like a pathetic attempt at a self-hug if anyone could see. However, they couldn’t, since I was standing in the center of a derelict.

A shipwreck, deck tilted, not enough that I would fall into the sea but enough that I could hear the waves crash and the rusted metal groan under my feet.

My eyes stung and if it was tears or salt spray I did not know. I let out a choked laugh, that almost turned into a sob, partway through. With an effort of will, pressing a hand against my frantic heart, I focused on controlling my breathing.

This was not my body. The thought lingered, like a festering cancer, gnawing on my mind. This was not my body.

My breath came in gasps.

This was not my body. It was wrong. It was too small. It didn’t feel right.

This was not my body. I felt light-headed, stars gleamed in my vision and darkness slithered across my eyes. I sank to my knees, only to end up hugging them to my chest. My cheeks were damp. Fingers that were not mine clutched at my cheeks.

This was not my body.

A scream built and built inside me, wanting to be unleashed. All of this was wrong. This was not my body. THIS WAS NOT MY BODY.

My teeth bit into the meat of my arm, I could taste salt and iron, blood, and cloth. The scream died as the pain hit, and my teeth came free from my arm.

Immediately, I hissed as a wave crashed into the wreck, sending a spray of salty water at me and my self-injury.

No. Not mine. Her body. Not mine.

I exhaled. My breath hitched partway through, threatening to become another sob. What was this? This body was not mine, why was I here?

With shaking fingers I stood, hands running over my body again, my right hand came away dark with blood as it passed over my left arm. The pain radiated out from the wound, making me hiss again.

I spared a glance down, spared a glance down at this body. The wound was dark. I couldn’t see in the sparse light but it actually looked pretty bad. A trickle of something wet ran down from my mouth.

My right hand came up again and clutched at it, pressing against it. Keeping my blood, her blood, inside. I shuddered. A deep, bone-deep shudder, which started in my spine and worked its way out.

For another long moment, I focused on breathing again. Salty air in, salty air out. The smell of salt and decay hung heavy like a dark miasma. With another shuddering gasp, I walked-hopped over the old metal railing.

I knew where this was, and part of that horror still clawed at my insides. A glowing structure stood resolute, shrouded in the pouring rain.

The rain that darkened my clothing. I felt cold, but that felt distant. It was as if I was far away, floating in an endless abyss. My hair, brown and messy, and most importantly not mine, clung to my forehead.

The oil-rig, its glowing cyan forcefield iconic, at least among readers of a certain web serial. How had I gotten here? Why was I here? My memory was hazy, I didn’t remember the events leading up to this universal transversal. I had been sitting? No, standing? In a mossy tree with blue sky overhead. In a maple tree with boxelder bugs buzzing. Then… what?

I pressed damp fingers into my eyes, trying to think, trying to figure out what was going on. Where I was appeared to be quite obvious. Brockton Bay, city of sin. No, that was Las Vegas. A hysterical giggle managed to slip free of my throat, Brockton Bay, city of Worm, where the world began to end. There, much more poetic and a lot more pressure.

Thunder boomed overhead as long threads of lightning flickered across the sky. I stared upwards for a moment, taking in the sight. It was not often I had ever seen or heard thunder and lightning, at least not since my childhood. That, in turn, brought the bitter taste of reality back into my world.

This body was not mine. I shuddered, attempting to control my visceral reaction.

“Focus, focus,” I murmured to myself, trying to act through the raw panic gnawing at my mind, gnawing at my breathing, threatening to send me back into a panic attack.

Consider the facts. Consider the facts, this was not my body. Ergo, it had to be somebody else’s body. With shaky hands, pale but stained by blood and tears I patted down my clothes. They were frayed and torn, by God knows what. Good American jeans with stupid holes in the knees, tight around my legs. One of my feet was bare, no sock or shoe, the other had a brown faux leather Chelsea boot. A dark gash ran through the fabric. I knelt to run my fingers along the gash, digging into it, they went right through to the skin beneath. I flinched as my probing fingers found a sharp wound underneath.

My panic was rising again along with my gorge. I never liked seeing my own wounds, it was almost a phobia. Once when I got blood typed, I almost fainted just seeing my blood laying on the card and knowing it had come out of the pinprick on my finger. I did fine with other people’s injuries. I did fine with self-inflicted wounds on myself, those made by another I could not stomach.

I could handle gore and blood in movies and games. Those seemed unreal, but there was something about my own blood exposed that just seemed wrong. It seemed wrong to feel that same lightheadedness while looking at the blood of a body that was not mine, not at all. I shouldn’t be reacting like this, like a princess in an ivory tower.

Shifting, I turned around, resting my back against the guardrail of the rusted ship. The waves crashed against it again, sending salty sea spray over and between the holes of the side. I let the cold water wash over me, hissing in pain as my wounds stung something awful. The sharp stings of pain helped ground me, kept me focused.

I felt a lump, barely a lump in my pocket. Perhaps a piece of fabric, it wasn’t like these pockets were good for anything else. Not even enough for a phone or a little credit card holder. My fingers closed around a sodden piece of paper. My clothes were already soaked with sea spray and that meant I was soaked all the way through. I didn’t feel cold though, I felt feverishly warm.

Maybe that was supposed to be a symptom of hypothermia, being warm when you should be cold? I unfolded the piece of paper, I could barely make out the words, bled through by water as they were.

‘Max’ it said, followed by a phone number. Something slithered up from the depths of my memories, from when I lived in New Hampshire as a child, the phone number started with a New Hampshire area code.

Who was Max? Unless that was supposed to be my name? I glanced down at my body, not likely. I didn’t look like a Max at all, at least not with this chest. Unless it was short for Maximum Ride or Maxima or something.

For some reason, I highly doubted that. I stared at the paper for a moment longer, not quite sure if I was supposed to commit the number, which was barely legible as it was, to memory or just leave it. It was not as if I had any recall of this world. This wasn’t a story. I highly doubted I would be able to slip seamlessly into another person’s life.

I doubted I could slip into my own life seamlessly, even if I time-traveled back into a younger version of me. That kind of chameleon ease was not what I had. Sure, I could probably give it a good effort, maybe claim head injury or something. Let the police pick me up somewhere.

For that, however, I needed to get to shore, and I was currently surrounded by the sea. In addition to all my other phobias, heights, needles, my own blood, tight spaces, and the like I was deathly afraid of water. Not pools, that would be stupid. Any water I couldn’t see the bottom clearly.

Thalassophobia. Fear of the sea, of deep water. Once, my uncle had challenged me to swim across a lake, it hadn’t been far, not even. I had been several yards from shore when the panic hit, the idea that anything could be in the dark lake, anything at all. Gone was the reason that said the lake had been landlocked for at least several hundred years and that anything big enough had long died from lack of food. The irrational panic prevailed.

It was worse here, this was the open ocean. Well, it was a bay, and that meant there could be sharks or worse. It was irrational. I could see the shore, it wasn’t that far, I could probably make the swim. At least, I could probably before. I didn’t know if I could know. This wasn’t my body, it was weak, enfeebled.

I could try, it was a bay. If I really tried I could probably force myself to work through the panic. Maybe. I had made it across that lake before. Once. I had refused to do so again.

I cast a look back over toward the glowing oil-rig. I could wait until the storm had passed and try to signal for help. It was likely someone from the rig would be able to see me, even at this distance during daylight hours.

The sea was liable to also be dangerous for other reasons, like jagged metal under the waves, where I couldn’t see, or sharp rocks. This ship had to be perched on top of something, after all.

I attempted to card my fingers through my stringy brown hair, it was matted and oily, even with the sea spray. I felt my face move in an uncomfortable grimace, I must look a mess. Blood on my mouth and teeth, a torn blouse, and ruined hair. Not to mention the missing shoe.

I had no ID, no identification. There was no way I could guarantee I actually existed. Chances were I did, but without confirmation, I had no way to be sure. Panic threatened to well up again, triggered by the way I was forced to notice my body.

I forced it down, attempting to think clearly and use my panicked delusions for something more productive. Since this wasn’t my body, it had to mean it was a body from this world, somehow. From Brockton Bay, from Worm.

One hand still in my hair I checked my pockets again. This time instead of just patting myself down, my fingers probed the shallow flaps of fabric. At first glance it seemed like I had been correct before, and that there was nothing there. My feverishly warm fingers closed around a far too cold coin.

I almost didn’t pull it free. I almost didn’t bother to look at it, it was a coin, after all, there was no way it could help my current predicament.

However, even here, encased in a body not my own, I was too curious for my own good. I pulled it free, holding it between two grimy fingers. I didn’t even know my back pockets had enough space for a coin. There was a strand of lint with it that immediately dampened in the roaring sea spray that drenched me with the next wave.

I lifted the coin to my face, taking in the image on its surface. It wasn’t an American coin and for a moment I was dumbfounded. I had seen a similar image before while walking through a museum of ancient art. A coin, embossed with the image of an emperor of Rome. I turned it over, away from the face. The coin was heavily tarnished on the other side, the silver turned black by age.

A symbol was etched into the tarnish on the back, a circle, not unlike a tambourine. For a long moment, I just looked at it.

A pitiful squeaking sound came out of my mouth when I drew the connection. A coin of the blackened denarius? Here, on my purpose. My hand spasmed as if it was jammed with a red hot poker and the coin flung away from me clattering the wet deck of the ship. The face of the Roman Emperor was face up, and his stern features seemed almost too perfect, too refined for a Roman aged coin.

“No, I don’t want it.”

(“Oh, but you do.”)

My breath came in gasps again, I saw stars before my eyes. I didn’t want it. I didn’t. No amount of power was worth eternal damnation. If I picked that up… It wasn’t real. No way, it couldn’t be real. The oil-rig meant I was in Brockton Bay, not the damnable Dresden Files. As bad as Worm was, the Dresden Files was arguably worse. In Worm I didn’t have to worry about my immortal soul, in Dresden Files, it was the most important thing humans got.

I paused, hands on my knees, watching the waves jostle the coin. I stepped on it, making sure it didn’t get swept away by the water. But, I was in Worm. Could I afford to let this power go? Could I afford to let a chance at survival slip me by? Was eternal damnation worth surviving in the short term? I could drop the coin later, once Scion was dead. Once there was no danger… then Ward would start…

More importantly, I couldn’t let this coin fall into the wrong hands. As much as I was having a crisis of faith right this moment, I would never be able to live with myself if the coin fell into the hands of a child. Knowing the Fallen, it would surely go to the person that could do the most damage. If Panacea got a coin, whispering in her ear…

I needed to pick up the coin, at least to keep it safe. My eyes flickered around the deck, desperately searching for something to safely pick up the coin. The paranoid part of my mind insisted that I had already touched it, the Fallen was just waiting now.

“Hello?” I asked, and I hated how my voice lilted, like a child cast out into the dark, hesitant, and afraid. Raw terror made into words manifest. A plea more than a question. I couldn’t help how my knees shook. How fear gnawed at my gut. I wasn’t a coward, I wasn’t.

A purse? A tan color or maybe cream-colored wedged up against the deck and rusted steel stairs. If only I could reach it without letting the coin out of my sight. I glanced down, shifting my Chelsea boot clad foot. I pushed my foot forward, hearing the scrape of the coin under my foot. I stepped with my bare foot, wincing at the rust under my sole. I hoped I had an up to date Tetanus shot.

Slowly, ponderously, I managed to make my way over to the purse. Surely, there was something inside that I could use to keep the coin safe and away. I tried to justify it to myself, that moment before, touching the coin didn’t really count. I didn’t know it was in my pocket, therefore, my free will in picking it up was negated. That meant the Fallen couldn’t touch me with its shadow, right? It had to work that way.

Carefully, I leaned over, unsnagging the strap of the small purse from the stairs. I flinched as blood splattered onto it from the self-inflicted bite wound on my arm. It looked really nasty, dark blood still oozing upwards from the marks of my teeth. The edges looked puckered. Hastily, I clenched a hand down on the wound, wondering how much blood I had already lost. With my other hand, I upended the purse, letting its contents spill free.

A smattering of cash, a twenty-dollar bill, a fifty, and several ones landing on the deck of the ship. A small mirror immediately shattered as it impacted the deck, sending sharp shards to mix with the water. Twenty years of bad luck, just what I needed, the sour thought bubbled up inside me. A credit card, a debit card following it, fell out next. Even in the dim light of the moon, I could read the name on the card.

Kayden A. Anders.

Huh. This was Purity’s stuff. I felt a jolt of fear, stiffening my body. My pulse thundered in my ears, and then I realized something. The petite body, the mangled clothing, the stringy brown hair...

I was Purity?


	2. Chapter 2: For Lack of Emerald Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The erstwhile SI comes to several conclusions, one of which is what to do (temporarily) with the coin.

Talk about panic fuel.

There was a keening sound as I sucked air into my lungs. It was a sound of fear, of someone at the end of their rope. Oh, I mused, terror suffusing me, I was making that noise.

Abruptly, I clamped my mouth shut, cutting the sound off at its source. Despite what should've been full lungs, spots danced in front of my eyes again.

I reached out a shaky hand to lean against the rusted rail, practically keeping from fainting just by sheer determination. I couldn’t believe that I actually thought things couldn’t get worse. 

I sank to my knees again, keeping my shoe on the coin. I could afford to deal with that after my new existential crisis. Was Kayden’s consciousness dead? Would it return? Was I actually Kayden? Chances pointed at yes, but I could hope.

Releasing my hold on the railing I went to pick up the purse again, I needed to be sure. After a moment, I decided to just sit backward, leaving my back against the railing. The rust felt sharp against my back, extremely uncomfortable, almost biting. The pain and discomfort brought me out of the panicked haze my thoughts were threatening to spiral into.

The blood on my hand was slick, felt almost slimy, even as it mixed with the saltwater around it. My fingers closed around a square shape, which I pulled free of the purse a moment later. I looked at the purse and then at the phone in my hand, how the heck did it not fall out already with all the shaking I was doing?

My fingers stilled as I paused at the label on the phone. ‘Blackberry’ was emblazoned over the screen. What was a ‘blackberry’? Where was the ‘home’ button? I stared helplessly at it for a moment, willing it to turn into an Apple iPhone or Android or something that made sense. I didn’t know if I could handle a phone with a keypad.

I shook my head, berating myself, and stopped being an idiot. I pressed buttons randomly, trying to boot-up the phone. It did a merry little jingle and the screen flashed white, right in my face as it turned on. Flinching backward as if struck with a bat, the back of my head thwacked against the rusted railing.

“Ouch!” I exclaimed, dropping the phone onto the ground, just in time for another wave to sweep over the side of the boat. It spilled through the small holes in the deck siding with deceptive swiftness.

I groped for the phone, trying to pick it up before the water reached it, with one bloody hand. My fingers closed around it but as I tightened my grip it slipped through my fingers, landing back in the seawater.

A frustrated little exhalation escaped my lips. I just stared at the phone, even as I swiped it up from the water, which receded with the tide for a moment. 

“Please,” I whispered, and even I had to admit I sounded forlorn, “Don’t be broken.”

The screen flickered, displaying a low battery symbol. I blinked at it, thinking, you’ve got to be kidding me.

Angry tears burned the corner of my face and I cast my eyes heavenward, in a silent beseechment, really life? You had to do this?

I focused on breathing, reminding myself that this wasn’t the end. I still had options. Remember self, if worse comes to worst I could just wait till morning. They had to be able to see me from the rig once morning came. At least I wasn’t dressed as Purity, I was dressed just like any other member of society. Yeah, right, I looked like I was part raggedy ghost, to be honest, bloodstains and stripped clothes galore.

Did Purity even dress in an outfit? Vaguely, I remembered something about her glow being maybe all she used as a costume. It seemed incredibly dangerous, what did she expect to happen if she was knocked unconscious or something like that? No, I bet she had a uniform or at least a mask that she wore underneath the glow.

Slowly, ever so slowly, as if drawn by a force not my own, my eyes traveled down to my foot. Water played over my shoe, forcing it to absorb the moisture. It was probably about as wet as it could get. For a split moment, my eyes flickered over to my bare foot. Huh, this body used pink nail polish, shiny glittery pink.

I ignored the diversion and lifted my foot, in between the lashing of the waves. With exaggerated carefulness, I slipped the end of the debit card, emblazoned as it was with the name Kayden Anders and the logo of a ‘New Hampshire’s Bank,’ under the denarius. I used the credit card, also from New Hampshire’s Bank, I was going to assume that was a regional credit card company, as the other side of the impromptu denarius sandwich. Or was I technically using the cards as rather wide chopsticks?

I lifted it up in front of my face, looking at the edges, before promptly dumping it into the bedraggled and soaked purse. There it was, a coin of the blackened denarius. Now that fear and horror weren’t clouding my thoughts with the concept of internal damnation I could spare a moment to really think.

First off, I actually didn’t even know whether the coin was even real. I bought a friend a copy of Lasciel’s denarius once. I had been reluctant to touch that too, even back in what was arguably the real world. Was touching it an invitation for other things, in addition to the fallen, to slink in. Would I just be throwing up a giant spiritual open sign saying, come here for possession central?

I had to remember that picking it up was a symbolic act. One that I wasn’t sure I wanted to deal with the spiritual consequences. On the other hand, it was power I sorely needed. All provided it was real. I stuffed my fist into my mouth, biting at my knuckles and screamed into it, my hand providing all the muffling I needed. What was I supposed to do?

There had to be a Catholic Church in Brockton Bay where I could take it…

This was Worm, not Dresden Files, I repeated to myself in my head, removing my hand. I could taste the blood in my mouth again since I basically shoved my bloody hand into my mouth. I grimaced, spitting slightly. All I managed was a small drop of spit, my mouth felt dry, even though I was surrounded by water. It was about as well as I managed to try when giving a saliva sample, and that was when I had plenty of water.

I couldn’t take it to a Church even if it was real. The rate that the coins escaped meant that their ability to corrupt was absolutely tremendous. Honestly, I didn’t rate my own chances at surviving dedicated temptation and psychological torment very high at all. I wasn’t the Cure of Ars or any other saint who could endure rampant temptation for years.

Furthermore, I certainly wasn’t Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden either. Redeeming a fallen was as close to impossible as it could be. Dresden’s redemption of Lasciel’s shadows required exceptional will and circumstances. To think I would be able to recreate such a feat was ludicrous.

At the same time, this was Worm. I needed that power. I needed to survive. My will to live was too strong. I didn’t feel the call of the void, the high place phenomenon, at this moment. I had felt it before at different parts of my life, but not now. Now I wanted to live, no, I needed to live. It didn’t matter that THIS WASN’T MY BODY.

I sucked in air, past clenched teeth and damp cheeks. The coin gleamed brilliantly in the purse. A single drop of blood beaded and dripped from my hand, which rested against the opening, onto the face of the emperor.

A shaky hand closed around the zipper. I attempted to pull the purse closed, anything to obscure it from sight for just a moment. I needed to think without it there, without it staring at me. My fingers, damp with blood and seawater slid off the plastic zipper on the first try, on the second it started to pull close before snapping off.

Still, I picked it off the ground and cradled it against my chest. The wet faux fabric, soaked in water as it was, felt strangely heavy against my skin. Belatedly, I was reminded of the Ring in Lord of the Rings, how in the movie, and book I suppose, it pulled down with enough weight for the chain to mark Frodo’s neck. It was not a comparison I wanted to make, even within my own mind. Half-hysterically, I realized I couldn’t be sure if it was just me in here anymore.

Even if a Fallen’s shadow wasn’t getting comfortable somewhere, there was probably some kind of eldritch supercomputer that just wanted knowledge at the expense of everything else.

Glancing down I saw the waterlogged dollar bills. God, I thought, I needed a drink, badly. Maybe I could use this money? It wasn’t really stealing if it was my body now, was it? If it was my body that meant Kayden’s stuff was mine, wasn’t it?

Yes, I could use a drink. An Emerald Rain maybe, or something else with lime. Or lemon, I liked lemon too. With slightly shaking fingers I stuffed the bills into my jean pockets. They were damp and didn’t really fit easily, and I was fairly sure one tore on the way in but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

If I was Kayden...if I was Purity, that meant I had her powers, didn’t it? Something to do with light beams, helix-shaped?

How did powers activate anyway, did I just think, and it would happen?

As it turns out that was all there was to it. The moment I thought ‘up’ or more accurately thought of the sensation of ‘up’ it was as if a light switch was thrown. My body lit up like an electric torch and I floated into the air, gaining far more height than I wanted.

The good news was that I was now off the shipwreck, the bad news was that I summarily forgot how to fly a moment later, plummeting toward the dark water below. That, in turn, set off a panic attack as I hit the water.

I sputtered, head coming out of the water, eyes stinging from the salt, with the taste of brine in my mouth. I trod water, gasping for air. My wild eyes locking on each swell of the waves. 

‘Up!’ I thought desperately, lifting into the air.

For a second, I thought seaweed was caught around my hand but as I went to shake it off I realized it was just the strap of the purse. Frantically, my hand dove into the purse, which was still stuck half-open, closing around the coin inside. I heaved a sigh of relief and focused on lifting higher into the air, hand still clenched around the coin.

It didn’t matter what I thought about using its power, I couldn’t lose it.

I drifted, as a beacon of formerly racist light, just above the waves. Occasionally, a rising wave would splash my feet. I rubbed my face again, feeling suddenly tired. My eyes ached as if I had been awake too long and the light that reflected off the water was blinding.

Bobbing, I shakily floated toward the shore, and the warm yellow lights clustered there. With luck, anyone watching the water would interpret my luminescence as reflected light from the full moon or something like that.

I just wanted a drink, if I was even able to get into any bar. Actually, a liquor store would be fine too, not like I really needed Emerald Rain. Not really, I just liked it an awful lot.

Once I was over the shore, which wasn’t even a beach or proper dock, but just turned quickly into concrete quays, I touched down and promptly stabbed my foot with a needle.

“Sh-” I cut the curse off, semi-hopping upward in a power-assisted jump. Who in darnation was going around shooting themselves up with stuff in such a godforsaken desolate graveyard of a shipping yard? At least, I assumed it was a shipping yard, not like I had ever been in one before.

There were big shipping containers, rusted over, details I could see even in the dark.

“That’s it,” I growled to myself, darting into the air, light trailing behind me. I soared over the near-silent city, searching from above. It was a small comfort that my eyesight was better in this body, which was not mine, than the last. My night vision was absolutely shot from hiding, reading in the dark, as a child that I was barely able to see anything when it got dark.

I unclenched my teeth and managed a shaky exhale as I spotted what looked like a small liquor store and dived down toward it. I slammed into the wall of the alley next to it with more force than I anticipated. I emitted a sharp yelp of pain as my ankle twisted, causing me to stumble, almost face planting into a pile of cardboard refuse, precariously placed in front of a dumpster.

My face was wet again, as I probed at my ankle. I let a shaky smile of relief crawl across my face when despite the sharp radiating pain it didn’t seem broken. I let the light fade from my body and immediately let out a sharp hiss as all my weight settled on my feet.

A bell jingled as someone left the liquor store around the corner of the alley. I edged closer to the alley’s entrance, so I could see the store. It looked a little run down, half-washed away graffiti over one glass window. It’s front was covered in metal bars, probably to stop burglars or maybe just regular criminals. The walls were red brick, a flashing neon side proclaimed ‘Liqior Store.’

Shifting on my feet I regarded how shady it was. Hell, (should I even use that expletive?) liquor wasn’t even spelled correctly. I looked like I had been assaulted, should I really go in there. On the flip side, I had powers…

But…

“Hey lady, you all right?” a man murmured from behind me. I twirled in place, or at least I attempted to twirl, it just shot pains of agony up from my ankle. One hand, the one still clutching the soaked purse darted out to hit the brick wall of the alley, to stop me from just collapsing on my arse.

“No,” I replied, then immediately amended it, “None of your business!”

The man looked pretty badly off himself, a stained brown jacket, which might’ve been leather at some point in its long life. Tattered jeans with actual patches and duck tape covered boots.

It wasn’t like I was more impressive either. Blood dripped down from one arm, making it look like I had been attacked. And that wasn’t even all, I was sure I looked like I had taken several involuntary dips in the ocean while fully clothed. Hell, as it was, my stringy brown hair clung to my face like I had just gotten out of the waves. The flight hadn’t even begun to dry me off at all.

I could feel my face twitch as I registered the smell of the alley, overpowering my own aroma of saltwater.

“I just need a drink,” I murmured, not taking my eyes off the man.

He lifted a dark eyebrow, moonlight hitting his extremely patchy beard, “Shit, lass, should you really be drinking with a little'un like that?”

My first thought was confusion, I didn’t have kids yet, I was pretty sure. Then my thoughts flew to something else, a detail about purity and my hands, both of them leaped to rest on my belly. My eyes followed a moment later.

I was a goddamn idiot.

How the fuck did I not realize I was pregnant?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think!


	3. Rising Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SI/Kayden comes to some realizations

“I didn’t-” my voice broke halfway through the sentence. No. No way was I dealing with this.

Almost instinctively I flared, something deep inside me coming to life, blazing with light. Light poured off me, like a hundred thousand lumen electric torch. Flaring almost unrealistically brightly.

The man cried out, stunned, putting a hand up in front of his face. He stumbled backward, tripping over the cardboard, his head fell back into the dumpster with a meaty thump. I didn’t stop to see what happened to him, just rocketed into the night sky, leaving a streak of white light as I did so.

I fought down rising nausea as I soared over the city, yellow street light clear beneath. For a moment I was free to soar, far above all earthly worries, and I allowed myself to try and push everything from my mind. Alas, it was not to be, and my escapism lasted only a few determined seconds before I wavered in my flight.

I felt… weak. Drawn out. Worn down. Like a battery that was drained of charge. A raw jolt of panic surged through me as I looked toward the ground so far below. Were my powers fading? I had barely enough presence of mind to start descending as my glow and flight started to wane swiftly.

Another jolt of fear ran through me as my power, a steady thrum I could almost feel stuttered and I dropped like a stone, before light flared around me again, returning me to a controlled descending flight pattern. Panic edged closer, my pulse thundering in my ears. Icarus. Why had I dared to soar so high? Of course, that was a silly question, Icarus’s wings had melted from the sun not run out of battery.

My limbs were shaking from tension as I finally touched down, knees buckling into a kneel, in a deserted looking park. After a poignant moment, I allowed my now dull glow to fade away completely, leaving me an ordinary woman again. My pulse thundered in my ears, I could feel my neck actually pulse with each beat of my heart. I raised my hand, cupping my neck, willing my pulse to slow down, return to normal.

I jumped as wet fabric touched my neck, and let out a hysterical giggle, an insane giggle. The kind someone gives when they’re on the very edge of their rope before that one last straw breaks their back. I still had the purse with the coin in it. The bloody blackened denarius. Just what I really needed.

I stumbled over to one of the park benches, almost tripping over grass turf of all things on my way there. The cool wood slates felt like a balm to my almost fevered skin. My face and neck felt hot beneath my fingers. Scooting over, I lay down on the bench, the stars of the night sky filling my vision.

Idly, more to distract me from my real issues I wished that I had actually taken astronomy or astrology or something. So I could read my horoscope in the sky or something, see how much this whole thing was going to suck.

I was ignoring the issue, wasn’t I? The moon hung overhead, with this changed revelation I almost imagined it as a grinning specter, what I had imagined it as before. A scythe amongst the stars.

I was pregnant. This was not a good thing. My hands drifted to my belly, it wasn’t that large, but it was noticeable, for sure. I guesstimated early second trimester, sixteen weeks maybe? I didn’t know, I hadn’t really cared that much about this before. I wasn’t even twenty-two for God’s sake.

I paused on that thought for some reason. Turning the thought over, I wasn’t twenty-two anymore. Not really.

I felt sick. As if that was the final prompt I was sick. I barely managed to roll off the bench, landing on my hands and knees as the acid burned my throat. Only bile came out as I heaved into the greenery, clenching handfuls of grass as I did so. Why me?

Why me, was right. What had I done to deserve this living hell? I had been a good person. I hadn’t lied or cheated unless you count that Pre-calculus homework from freshman year when I wrote my equations in the calculator because I was failing math class and just couldn’t figure out what to do.

I choked off that tangent in my mind forcefully, it wasn’t productive and even more so wasn’t useful.

Facts first, I thought, wiping my mouth with a grass smeared hand, and taking a deep breath. I needed to consider everything…

Oh god. The thought filled up my mind, all-consuming. I was pregnant.

I let out a hysterical sob. I felt violated, in a way I never had before. It wasn’t that the idea of having a baby eventually was abhorrent, just the way it was happening now. This wasn’t even my body, it wasn’t my body, it wasn’t my baby.

I shoved a strain of thought away, not quite willing to let it form, not quite willing to entertain that option because if I did it was suddenly so much more real. As it was, I could hope to push it through my mind. Push it off for later. I needed to push it off for later.  
Shakily, I got to my feet, still clutching the purse in a rictus grip. My fingers felt tired and my legs ached, my ankles ached something awful.

The wind rustled through the trees, bathed in the moonlight, and I focused, trying to calm my harsh, almost panic attack worthy breathing into something more manageable.

Breath in through my nose, out through my mouth. I could do this. I could survive. I had survived before, I’d survive again. I needed to be able to function, I reminded myself. I was alone in a strange land as a stranger myself.

I was a wanted woman. My body, her body, was a wanted woman, I corrected after a moment. This body’s only notable friends were racists. She was second-in-command of the Empire 88. A Nazi organization.

Ironic, that the mind of a girl with Jewish ancestry, even if it was just a fraction of a fraction, was now in the body of a Nazi. The thought finally broke through my depressive mood. But even that grim amusement wasn’t enough to calm me down if anything it just made it worse, compounding it.

I needed a plan. There was no way I would survive like the mess I was currently. I was fucking Purity. I was going to have to deal with things. If I didn’t I’d end up as a slave or worse for the rest of my days. I couldn’t go through this pretending everything was like a storybook or something and it would all turn out.

This was my life now and bad things could happen. Fuck, bad things had already happened. Bad things could have already happened. I mean, this body seemed like it was beaten five ways till Sunday before I even got thrust into the pilot’s seat.

Like a drunkard I got to my feet, stumbling over to what I recognized as an old-timey newspaper stand. I could see what happened on the news. For a long moment, I just stared at the front page of the Brockton Bay Gazette. Who was Challenger?

I didn’t remember her at all. I squinted at the words in the nighttime gloom. Now, how do I get newspapers out? Do these use coins? I was liking my great idea less and less. I raised my hand, willing just the slightest bit of power. Hey, Purity was the strongest blaster, bar Legend, she should be able to open a newspaper box no problem.

Fwoosh! Boom!

Twin concentric spirals sprung from my outstretched right hand, anemic and weak looking. The newspaper box literally disappeared. One moment it was there, standing and being newspapery, the next it was gone.

I looked down at my hand. Well… shit.

Someone had to have heard or seen that too. I glanced around the park, taking in the darkened trees and abandoned park benches. Yellow lights on long poles weakly cast their light over the path intermittently. The whole thing was an abductor's wet dream. I hated it with a vicious passion.

Resolved, I decided not to spend a moment longer in the park. I needed to get out. I had no power… my hand drifted down to the purse.

No.

(Yes. It would be easy. It would make everything easier, wouldn’t it?) my own voice whispered insidiously inside my head.

It wasn’t something I could use. It couldn’t be something I would use. Lash’s redemption was a fluke. The Denarians were monsters, despite how fanfiction about the Dresden Files liked to portray them in stories like Hell to Pay or Mea Culpa. Where the Denarians were just misunderstood or seemed human. They weren’t nice.

I stiffened, feeling the first bite of a chill wind whistle through the trees. I turned in place, hands clutching around myself, just above my belly, and set off at a brisk walk away through the trees. I needed to get out of this place. I couldn’t stand to be alone with only the trees for company.

Belatedly, stumbling around in the dark, a thought occurred to me. Brockton Bay was in New Hampshire. As far as I recalled New Hampshire didn’t have liquor stores that weren’t run by the feds. If so, was that actually a liquor store? Was Worm Earth that messed up that it would have liquor stores privately owned in the state of New Hampshire? After all, I highly doubted a federally operated business would look so dilapidated or spell their liquor sign as ‘liqor.’

The resulting snort snuck out, unbidden, startling me. A tiny grin threatened to break my gloomy countenance. The thought was just so stupid, that liquor laws would be different between worlds.

The rough pavement path gave way to brick, still sparsely illuminated in the twin lights of bad park lamps and moonlight, and then finally to a little parking place. I glanced around taking in the whole area. A great gothic cathedral loomed down the street, the kind of thing I would expect in Gotham, not Brockton Bay.

I waffled for a moment, half-tempted to go toward it. The coin felt heavy in my pocket, too heavy, and I felt reluctant. The coin was power, power I needed. I didn’t want to use it, but at the same time, I didn’t want to throw it away.

A street light flickered down the road. The road itself was empty, no cars traveling. I strained my ears, attempting to take in any noises. It was mostly quiet. A distant siren picked up, moving, dying gradually away. I cast one last look down the street, at the distant cathedral, I didn’t even know if the priest or minister could do anything with it anyway, and stepped away.

My soul felt heavier, weighing me down more. I was tempted to just kick off my Chelsea boot, walking with one boot only was kind of a chore. Step-clump, and all that. But I was still wary of needles after the near-miss at the docks. The last thing I needed was to step on something and pick up HIV or something.

Step-clump.

Step-clump. My feet hurt. Why did both of them hurt, only one was missing a shoe?

Red and lights lit up briefly behind me, and I was momentarily confused before I was illuminated by two bright high beams, just for a moment. I blinked in the sudden light, turning around, thinking, I must be more out of it then I thought. How had a car snuck up on me?

Panic threatened to rear its ugly misshapen head again and I forced it down. A car door slammed, and I heard the crackle of a radio clearly in the silence.

“Miss! Miss! Are you all right?” Somebody was in front of me. I blinked for a moment.

“Uh,” I replied, “I, uh, fell.”

My eyes managed to adjust partially, and the panic faded just a little as I took in the sight of a blue uniform and silver badge.

“You fell?” The police officer, or who I hoped was a police officer said incredulously, “Must’ve been quite a fall.”

The words died on the tip of my tongue. The explanation, what had actually happened. I couldn’t say I had fallen out of another world and possessed someone, that would just get me branded as a Master or another Butcher. I couldn’t say my name, I could guess that if I did the Empire would know about it before long.

“Uh,” I replied eloquently.

“What’s your name, Miss?” the officer questioned gently. He was close now and I could see him, dispute the glare from his car. He looked high-thirties, with a blond mustache and blond hair. He had blue eyes and stress marks down the sides of his face.

“P-” Purity thankfully died before I could get farther than one syllable. That would’ve been beyond stupid. Kayden was just as bad.

“Kayden,” I replied finally, for lack of options, then added with more strength, “Kayden Anders.”

Anders. I needed to take care of that. Anders was Kaiser’s name.

I needed to kill Kaiser.


	4. Brand of the Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A medical examination and the revealing of the mark of the Fallen

Chapter 4: Brand of the Fallen

The rough woolen blanket was scratchy against my bare arms, except where it had absorbed the excess saltwater I was still drenched in.

The chair I was sitting on was cold, my bare foot rested against it, sending soothing cold through my abused heel. I was actually pretty lucky that I hadn’t lacerated my foot or something like that on the derelict. 

One of my hands clutched at a paper cup, filled with hot cocoa. I hadn’t drunk any of it, just clutched it, letting the warmth soothe my fingers. I still felt feverishly hot, and slight tremors made their way up my body whenever I tried to relax.

It was slightly easier to focus now. Past the panic and hysteria that threatened my mind. I clutched the hot chocolate closer, raising it to my lips. The warm liquid scalded my tongue.

I lowered the cup, clutching the blanket about me closer, the rough wool surprisingly comforting.

“Hello. Kayden?” A female voice asked, and I looked up from my seat. The name took a slight moment to register, I was still used to my ‘real’ name, not the name of this body.

A woman stood in the doorway, clad in blue scrubs, a clipboard held carefully in one hand. Her face looked stern, frown lines prominent but her eyes were sympathetic.

I knew going to the hospital was a clear mistake. For one, I had no idea whether I had medical insurance, even though I assumed I did, due to Purity’s identity in the Empire. Two, if the Empire was keeping an eye out for me then they’d probably have an eye on the Brockton Bay hospital. I still had no idea how I got so injured, and chances were that it easily could’ve happened either before or during whatever multiversal transversal occurred.

Part of me wanted to be treated, assisted somehow. Not be forced to do all of this, this new life, alone.

“I’m-” I said quietly and then cleared my throat, “I’m Kayden.”

I had the feeling the nurse knew that, based on the way she had her eyes fixed on me since the moment I looked up.

“This way,” the nurse replied, acknowledging my words, stepping back from the doorway.

“Of course,” I murmured, voice too low to be heard. My purse, coin within, pressed into my side, kept in place by the blanket.

“Miss?” I heard the police officer call behind me, and I turned, just enough to look back at where he still sat after escorting me here.

He continued once he realized I had heard him, saying, “We were hoping you’d be able to give a statement after your injuries are attended too, maybe catch whoever it was…?”

I nodded mutely, pretending not to notice the way the nurse sent a frown toward the officer. The officer nodded, heading out from the little waiting room in the next moment. I watched him go. I wasn’t sure what I was going to tell the police, I actually didn’t know what had happened to me, and that could be an issue.

I could always lie, I thought darkly. Nail Kaiser in more ways than one. Almost immediately, though, the thought departed. Considering the difficulty that accusing a wealthy man of abuse back in my far more progressive original reality held, I would be lucky if it had any effect at all. Furthermore, I had little doubt that Kaiser would want to know why I had suddenly decided to turn on him. I wasn’t Purity, any close interaction with her acquaintances was liable to end in tears and accusations of insanity.

Furthermore, if I did it that way he’d know I was coming, and if he went to ground I doubted I could find him. I wasn’t an investigator like Tattletale or a detective like Sherlock Holmes. For all, I liked spy movies I wouldn’t know where to start. If Kaiser discovered I was after him, there would be no way I could catch him.

“Here,” The nurse said, reaching out but stopping just short of touching me, her hand hovering over my shoulder. She withdrew her hand, gesturing to a bed, lined with white paper.

I cast a cautious look over at her, before moving to do as she indicated.

“Sit up here, honey,” the nurse commanded me, her voice still cast in a soothing tone. I appreciated the effort. After my day, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to even talk to anyone, I especially wasn’t that interested in talking to anybody that demanded something of me.

Gingerly, I sat on the bed, which creased under my slight weight, the paper crinkling. The nurse took my cup away from me, frowning and creasing her brow.

“Who gave you this?” she asked.

“The officer?” I answered, my voice soft. I really didn’t see why that was relevant.

“It’s scalding,” she answered my unspoken question, she half-smiled, an attempt at humor, “You’d think people would be more careful, especially after the Liebeck case.”

“Liebeck?” I questioned. I could see what she was trying to do, already. Attempting to set me at ease. Of course, I had no idea what she was talking about. Case implied a lawsuit, maybe?

“McDonald’s Coffee?” she gestured to the cup, setting it out of the way, trying to look cheery as she did so.

“No?” I’m afraid I wasn’t following. The nurse opened the drawer to the left of the sink with a smooth motion that spoke of long practice. Her fingers moved deftly, expertly pulling on a pair of disposable blue nitrile gloves.

I only watched with tired, half-hooded eyes. There was a small mirror, oriented on the wall so that I could just see myself. My hair was sodden and messy, short brown strands clinging to a petite face. My cheekbones were sharp, but my face as a whole was rather bland. A resoundingly average look. It was a small relief that I wasn’t ugly, actually, since I vaguely recalled Kaiser leaving Purity for Fenja and Menja, or something like that. My face just wasn’t supermodel pretty.

It felt strange, exceedingly so, to look into a mirror and see another face staring back. It was like the uncanny valley but for myself. A ‘not right,’ ‘not real’ feeling. Distant, like watching a movie from the point-of-view of a character. The more I stared at my reflection the more unsettled I felt.

Wrestling my attention away from the mirror, I returned it to the nurse. She stood just about a little less than a meter away. She raised her hand toward my injured arm, which was still clutched by my hand. The self-same hand that was also holding the blanket. A blanket which was now smeared, at least on the inside, with my blood.

She stopped, looking at me questioningly, “Can I clean the wound on your arm?”

I nodded shakily, holding my arm, and taking my hand off my self-inflicted bite mark. The blanket immediately began to slide so I clutched at it, holding it close.

Something flickered over the nurse’s eyes, an expression that passed so quickly that I almost convinced myself that I hadn’t seen it.

“What is this?” she asked, dabbing it with gauze. I hissed as she poured medical ethanol on it a moment later, flushing the wound, revealing the imprint of my teeth.

“Bite mark,” I replied.

The nurse’s lips thinned and she looked up at me, “Someone else’s?”

“No,” the word slipped free, almost unbidden to answer her, “It’s mine, I just- I didn’t want to scream.”

Oh. The moment the words left my lips I wanted to take them back. The implication I had just alluded to was not the best, but the words of clarification died in my throat all the same. The words were true, and I kind of felt that any words I would offer might just make things more awkward.

The nurse gave no indication that she had heard for a moment, as she continued to clean the wound but I noticed that she was a little more focused than before.

“Human bite wounds,” she finally said, “Aren’t very clean, you’re going to need to watch this for any sign of sepsis.”

Her eyes dropped to my stomach, even as I tried to recall what I knew about sepsis. That was a blood infection? That was the red lines radiating outwards from the point of injury. I could remember that much from one of my college Biology classes, even if for the life of me I couldn’t recall the actual class name, BIO-340 or 400 or something like that.

“Any other injuries?” The nurse asked, her tone mild and still quiet.

“No?” I answered, whispered really, spurred to respond in kind to her quiet voice.

“I need to ask, Miss,” the nurse said quietly, her eyes intent, meeting mine “Do you need an evidence recovery kit?”

“No!” the words burts through my lips with alarming intensity.

“No, I wasn’t-” I tried, “That didn’t happen!”

Just the idea itself set my stomach roiling. The idea of why I would need such a kit, nauseating. However, the worst part was that bearing by the condition of Purity’s body, something like what she was suggesting might’ve happened. I didn’t want to consider it, but it could’ve happened, and I wouldn’t know.

Not my body, not my body, I repeated the mantra in my head, managing to lift some of my downward spiral. In that moment the words were a balm to my mind. Whatever had happened to this body had not happened to me. I had been violated in no worse a way, but not in that way.

The nurse eyed me, an inscrutable expression on her face. She nodded slowly and said, “If you’re sure.”

I didn’t answer, just nodded, mind already whirring on to the next step. I hadn’t been able to give my social security number to either the police or the hospital when asked, nor had I been able to give my address. I wasn’t sure what they interpreted from that, but I felt I probably didn’t want to know just yet.

The nurse made to stand, but paused, her eyes flickered down to my chest. She stepped closer and asked, “May I?”

I glanced down, taking in my ruined blouse prominent in my vision. The once blue color looked profoundly sad and bedraggled. My skin was unhealthy pale beneath it. Her fingers, still clad in the nitrile gloves pushed down the neck of my blouse slightly, revealing an angry red patch of skin.

A symbol was marked there, a brand really, a circle, measured indentions around its length. A radiant star symbol within the circle, all on pink flesh. A brand of the fallen.

“A brand?” The nurse asked, touching it gently with a gloved finger. Of course, I knew what that mark was. Harry Dresden had gained one on his hand after picking up Lasciel’s coin, that was why he was wearing the glove later on in the series before he had destroyed his hand. It marked someone as the wielder or potential wielder of one of the coins.

“Are you all right?” The nurse asked, I could hear her through a haze. My eyes flickered upward, into the mirror. My skin was pale white, all the blood drained. My head was a cloud, I felt light-headed, floating. My vision seemed to swim, starbursts of white light sputtering in my eyes.

I felt my panic rising higher and higher, nearing what would be some kind of inevitable crescendo. Almost, as soon as those thoughts crossed my mind, I jolted in place, an almost electric charge of pain hitting me.

A sharp little breath entered me, an inhalation, letting oxygen into my body.

The nurse’s hand was on my shoulder, her voice came again, “Calm down, you’re safe. You’re safe.”

I inhaled a long breath through my nose, eyes darting around widely, before finally resting on the nurse, who seemed unsettled. I exhaled, eyes fixed on her calm ones, and then inhaled again. My heart beat almost painfully in my chest. It felt as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

“You all right?” she asked, tone wary, almost if she expected me to have another panic attack.

“Y-yes,” I replied, tone breathless, words edged with panic.

I had been wrong. Some small part of me had always known that the brief contact back at the derelict ship had been sufficient. That small moment enough to mean it was here. In my head with me.

Shakily, my eyes lifted to the mirror, to a pale face and tired eyes. I almost half-dreaded to look into it again, expecting to find something else. See something else in there with me. Half-expecting a pair of eyes to open above my own. 

Instead, there was nothing. No whispered words I could hear, no movement in my vision I could see but nobody else could. Nothing.

The nurse stood again, watching me for a long moment, lips pursed, finally, she spoke, “If you’re sure, I can tell the police that you’d like to speak with them.”

I wavered, words on the tip of my tongue. To ask for the PRT instead, just jump into the deep end headfirst. I had no doubt they could help me.

No. I had a goal. I needed to stop the Empire 88.

I had a job to do.

I nodded, and responded, voice gaining strength as I did so, “I can speak to them.”


	5. Uninvited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our erstwhile protagonist is questioned by the police and then is surprised by a surprise cape.

Chapter 5: Uninvited

אסור לאל

The antiseptic hospital smell was honestly close to overpowering, a disinfectant that hung in the air like lost dreams and stung my nose a little. Iodine and something else made betadine. It smelled like a hospital.

I actually had never had much experience inside a hospital, except when I visited the neonatal intensive care unit once, and they printed out a little ID that expired chemically within twenty-four hours. That same sterility and quietness must be a staple of hospitals everywhere. The scent of sterility over the miasma of death, only veiled by the stifling reek of disinfectant.

The bandage around my foot ached furiously, and I bent down a little, meaning to scratch at it but stopping half way there. I vaguely recalled that scratching wounds, even over bandages was a bad idea. Well, to be fair, I recalled that a bit more clearly than just ‘vaguely’ would justify.

My Chelsea boot lay on the floor where the nurse had placed it as she treated my foot. She had been appropriately horrified about the needle I had pierced my foot with back on the docks. Both those injuries seemed distant, the first because I had no idea how I injured my foot. The second because it had seemed almost surreal. The pain was real, though, and the ache up my foot grounded me just fine.

“I wonder if Panacea deals with cases like mine?” I murmured out loud, still sitting on the bed, sending another cursory glance around the room. I kind of doubted that Amy Dallon would make the rounds to heal every.

“Not really,” the nurse replied, tone still even, as she opened a drawer by the cabinet, making a ‘hmm’ noise as she did so. Her posture was tight, and I postulated that she was more than a little concerned that I had forgotten two more than minor points of damage to my-this body.

“She mainly has to deal with trauma and serious injuries,” the nurse continued, not unkindly, “We can treat your injuries just fine, so it's not really right to bother Panacea with something minor.”

“The needle?” I queried, my countenance much calmer than earlier.

“We can run some standard blood tests,” she smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes. Instead, her smile was false, for all that it tried to be reassuring. At least she wasn’t malicious, instead, it seemed like she felt something like pity.

“That way we can make sure that nothing harmed the baby, as well,” the nurse said, flicking a syringe. It was clear, with a silver hypodermic needle on the tip, almost see-through at this range.

It was something of a surprise that only then did I realize that my vision was fine. I mean, it wasn’t like I had particularly weak vision before, just enough that I needed thin glasses. I really only wore them when doing anything that required extended time outside. Or when I drove, which admittingly wasn’t that often. Still, it was something of a surprise, since it was the first silver lining to this new body and life.

It made me feel just a little bit better, even as I eyed the needle with no small amount of trepidation. Still, I wasn’t foolish enough to refuse a blood test, no matter my intense personal dislike of needles.

I closed my eyes, focusing on absolutely nothing. Thankfully, the nurse didn’t try and distract me with conversation, but was instead quick, and I was left with nothing more than the sensation of a bee sting.

My eyes opened as she turned around, her deft hands already securing the blood sample. She paused just a moment, then added wryly, her brow quirking upward, “I’ll go inform the officer now, you’re still fine with giving a statement?”

“Don’t you need the room?” I asked, part of me desiring to put off any exchange. Yes, I had resolved to speak to the police, but that didn’t mean I wanted to. Part of me still kind of suspected that I would be discovered as a fraud pretty quickly. I wasn’t actually Purity just as I wasn’t actually Kayden Anders.

“It’s the middle of the night,” the nurse responded easily, “There shouldn’t be an issue, we have plenty of room these days.”

It sounded like she was referencing something I should know about. I wracked my brain for a moment before the realization hit. She was talking about Panacea, the cure-all. I knew that some stories showed the nurses and doctors being rather bitter over her power putting them out of work, but this nurse seemed more grateful than anything else.

She stepped out, the door slowly closing behind, eased by the pneumatic door closer. I sat in silence for a moment, fingers nervously picking at the threads of my woolen blanket. I wondered whether I should’ve asked if the hospital had any donated clothes I could have. After all, I had no intention of returning to whatever domicile Purity called home, especially not if I would run in Kaiser.

I really didn’t want to run into him until I had my head screwed on right and I was ready. Whatever happened, I knew he was supposed to be some kind of a master at social-fu, which meant he was probably pretty close to being as bad as the entire fanfiction adage of ‘never let the thinker speak.’ However, I also needed to bear in mind that I knew exactly who he was and how despicable he was, and that I didn’t have Purity’s neuroses for him to exploit.

I would have the advantage in whatever meeting we had, at least initially. I didn’t hold much credence to the idea that he would actually be as dangerous as a thinker like Tattletale because I didn’t at all sympathize with racist ideology.

There was a phone jingle out in the hallway, the opening notes to a song. I recognized it almost immediately, straightening out of my increasingly depressive haze. My lips moved soundlessly as I tried to place the name of the song, its opening notes were a simple piano. You know when that happens, you remember a song, recognize the tune immediately, but the actual name floats just out of reach? It was something like that. My brow scrunched together, something by Alanis Morissette?

I was broken from my impromptu reverie by a sharp rap on the door and a muffled female voice, “Miss Anders? The nurse said you’d be open to answering some questions?”

“Oh,” I replied, with great intelligence, “You can come in.”

I pulled my feet up and under me, crinkling the paper as a I did so, the door creaked open a moment later.

The door creaked open with a pneumatic hiss, and a lithe young woman slipped in, delicate wire-rimmed glasses on her face.

“Hello Miss Anders,” she said, her tone somber, there was an interesting undercurrent of another emotion, not quite eagerness but more like restrained aggression. It was heavily veiled, and a moment later, barely a moment really, I realized what it was, vindictive protectiveness. I suppose that was a good emotion to have in a police officer.

I raised one hand, the one on my unbandaged arm, and acknowledged her with a small listless wave.

She was dressed in a dark grey charcoal suit, with a pale grey overcoat, and a white blouse beneath. She didn’t wear nail polish, or if she did it was clear.

She nodded, acknowledging my greeting, “My name is Detective Rachael Halco, with the Brockton Bay Police Department, would you mind if I asked you some small questions about why you were wandering around tonight in your condition?”

As she identified herself she held a metal badge forward, attached to a lanyard. She gave me a moment to scrutinize it, the word ‘detective’ was emblazoned on the top, just under a stylistic eagle. Below, under what I assumed was the city seal, was the word, ‘police.’ It looked real enough, so I nodded shallowly.

In the slight sentence that followed I continued to scrutinize her intently. Her complexion was olive, hinting at a Mediterranean origin, possibly Spanish or Greek. Her eyes were a warm brown, and her hair was black. I had no idea what Halco meant, but I guessed that it would give me some kind of insight into her ethnicity.

I visibly hesitated in the next moment, mouth open to reply to her initial question, to say yes, but at the same time, I felt doubt. This was the start of a masquerade really, the mask being placed on my face of my own volition. I could claim amnesia, or I could lie.

“I don’t mind,” I answered, the words easier to speak than I thought they would be, flowing just slightly better.

She nodded seriously, reaching inside her blue jacket to retrieve a plastic square that was about the size of a phone, there was a large red switch button on the side.

“Recording?” she asked, voice still mild.

“Sure,” I responded. She scrutinized me for a second, not switching anything on, and I surmised that she had been recording the whole first part already.

“Let’s start with something easy,” she said, “Have you been in Brockton Bay long?”

No, I thought partially hysterically. Of course, there was no way I could actually say that without claiming amnesia, and I really didn’t want to end up with an MRI. Then the gig on being a parahuman would really be up. As alluring as going to the PRT was, I kind of doubted they would be as lenient as they were for Assault. For one, Assault didn’t actually have hate crimes under his body’s belt.

No matter that I was an entirely different person, there would undoubtedly be someone that had a vested interest in Purity going away forever. I would be foolish to rely on the goodwill of figures like Piggot or Tagg, or whatever the last guy was… Renick?

“All my life?” I answered, but it came across as more of a question rather than an actual statement, to my cringing disappointment. That wasn’t suspicious at all. Was Purity from Brockton Bay? Did she move to Brockton Bay after triggering? I had no idea actually.

The Detective glanced down at the writing pad she was holding with her pen, a metal ballpoint, poised over it, she didn’t write anything down, instead just tilted her head slightly.

“Oh? I moved here as a child myself, but I always wanted to be a detective. What about you, what did you want to be growing up?” The Detective asked, and intellectually, I knew what she was doing, lulling me into calmer territory. Establishing normalcy so that we could talk about what actually happened.

I glanced upward, my gaze catching the mirror and my stringy hair. The deep shadows under my eyes made me look like a raccoon. I had no idea what Purity wanted to be? Dutiful housewife? That seemed kind of boring.

“I wanted to be a lawyer,” I confided, turning to my actual source of inspiration.

She smiled, what could almost be called a happy smile, “Ah, I was always more of the doer type, plus I was enamored with all those detective shows. What do you do currently?”

What did Purity do? Besides being racist? She was somewhere in the Empire hierarchy, I wanted to say second in command, but wasn’t that Krieg? Or was it Hookworf? Hookwolf? Hookwolf.

“I write a little,” I settled on, that was even kind of true, and wouldn’t sound out of place as saying something like, ‘help organize groups’ or ‘attending graduate school.’

Detective Halco made a little note on the notebook she had somehow materialized when my attention was distracted. A short little symbol, something in shorthand.

“Are you happy where you are now?” She asked, seeming for all the world to be merely asking about whether I was happy with how my life turned out so far. It was a question that stumped for a moment before I realized that she must have, and correctly for this body, pegged me as a woman of thirty, instead of the age of my mind.

The line of questioning was strange for such an assumption though, since I didn’t really see how that related to the current state of my body at all.

“I guess,” I answered, non-committedly.

She made a considering noise, more of a hum really, and then asked, “Do you have any recollection of what happened to you last night?”

“Uh-” I answered shakily, already feeling the sea spray against my skin, the scent of the ocean in my nose. The roar of the waves. The metal biting into my barefoot.

“Miss Anders? Are you all right?” She reached out a hand, almost like she was going to grab onto my shoulder.

“I’m fine!” I bit out, with slightly more vitriol than I thought possible.

She didn’t recoil or move back, instead, she doggedly continued her questioning, “It was obvious that you were missing quite a while, why? Any information, anything at all, could only help you.”

“I don’t know,” I replied, “My name is Kayden Anders. I don’t know why I was out there.”

She grimaced, “And your husband?”

“How-?”

She gestured down to my hand, I lifted it slightly, a slim silver ring rested snugly against my ring finger. My free hand slid down to grab it, tightening around. I wasn’t that used to wearing rings and the idea that I had somehow missed it was rubbing me the wrong way. It wasn’t like my discovery of improved vision, this was more worrying. That was a pleasant surprise, missing a ring seemed like a more serious lapse in awareness.

The idea of not noticing a wedding ring just seemed wrong. Even worse was not even knowing the face of the person to which you were apparently married. Still, it was more of a manageable, distant worry. Not one I could really quantify.

“I get along fine with Max Anders,” I replied, lying right to the Detective’s face. She gave on indication that she disbelieved me, besides a very slight, very tiny twitch of her finger holding the pen.

“The injury on your leg, the cut, how did you get it?”

“I tripped over, um, a log,” I replied.

“A log?” she asked, making another note in shorthand.

“Yes, a large log, with nails.”

“You were walking not far outside of Jefferson’s Park, why were you walking there? Is there anything you can tell me about your thought process?”

I paused, thinking, it was another question I couldn’t answer easily.

“I was just walking,” I answered.

She hummed again, I could tell that she thought there was something profoundly fishy about the entire conversation. To be fair, my answers were pretty close to nonsense and non-answers.

“All right, can you walk me through what happened last night, in as much detail as you can,” she finally said after a few moments.  
This was an issue, since if I said anything, then they’d really be looking into it. I didn’t appear to have a head injury and unlike my previous world, having wounds with no memory was a definite cause to call foul play. Even worse, it was caused to involve the Parahuman Response Team, which I didn’t think I wanted.

For the next several moments, I tried to concoct a totally made-up story, but there were too many holes. If I said I was on a ship, she’d ask how I got off it, and it was far enough away that she’d find it unlikely I could make the swim, an entire kilometer or two at least from shore.

Maybe less, maybe more, I wasn’t the best at estimating distance.

“I don’t know,” I said.

She blinked, looked down at her notebook, and then looked up, I continued, “I don’t know what happened last night because I don’t remember anything.”

Detective Halco pursed her lips, evidently thinking before she asked, “And you realized where you were at Jefferson Park?”

I didn’t reply. She snapped her notebook shut and then looked like she regretted the motion when I flinched back at the sudden sound. Her mouth opened, maybe to apologize, then she just closed it.

“Miss Anders, I feel I need to tell you that we can’t protect you from whoever hurt you if you don’t give me, us, something to work with. If you’re afraid of someone, rest assured that we can protect you-”

“Even from a cape?” I asked, breaking her flow of words. Almost the instant the words left my lips I regretted them, that sentence pretty much guaranteed the PRT getting involved. I had no doubt that even the slightest whiff of cape business would send them running to figure out what was going on.

Her mouth snapped shut like she had been shot, like a bucket of frigid water had suddenly poured down her back. Her face went through a complicated string of expressions, before finally settling on wariness.

“Is there a cape after you?” She asked slowly.

“No,” I responded, which was true as far as I knew. I twisted the blanket in my hand again, squishing it in my clenched fist. Yes, there weren’t capes after me now, but there sure would be soon.

“I see,” she said, her notebook falling open again. Her long fingers didn’t seem to know what they were doing, closing the book and then reopening it.

She seemed to reach a decision, finally. She nodded mechanically and spoke again, “Miss Anders, if you remember anything, anything at all, the BBPD would like to know.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment and she added, “We can help you if you let us.”

“I don’t think you can,” I finally replied.

She looked like she might protest before she shook her head, and then nodded to herself, struggling internally. Her hand slipped into the pocket of her overcoat pulling free a business card, she weighed it in her hand before extending it toward me.

“The nurse should be back with some makeshift clothes for you soon, if you do think of anything that might help or decide to press charges against anyone, please remember we’re here to help you.”

I took the small laminated card, the words, “Rachael Falco, Police Detective, Brockton Bay Police Department.” A phone number was included underneath.

“I will,” I replied, my voice stronger.

She stepped toward the door, pulling it open easily and slipped out into the hallway. Somewhere along with the conversation, the song, which I thought had been a cellphone jingle, had died out. I hadn’t even noticed when it ended.

I turned my palms up, looking at them in the sudden silence. It seemed almost stifling. Like the rising apprehension right before placing a bid, where it's too early to act but the anticipation of needing to act was steadily increasing.

I pulled the neck of my blouse down a little to look at the brand. It was still the same puffy angry red of inflamed flesh. With a hesitant hand, a shaky index finger, I touched the brand, prodding it gently. There was no feeling. It was as if the brand wasn’t even a part of me, dead flesh, empty of neurons.

I heard footsteps out in the hallway, not even registering them for a moment until they stopped outside the door to my hospital room.

The door eased open in the next instant and a man in a red shirt, tall and with a blond buzz-cut, slipped into the room. Barely making a sound, despite the hissing of the door. He had a black domino mask over his clean-shaven face. He frowned, the lower side of his

“Purity,” he said, his voice gravelly, “what did you do that got you into this mess?”

Red shirt. Buzzed hair. Blonde. Domino mask. Hell, this guy was Empire, was what ran through my mind as he finished turning around, making eye contact.

Immediately, I felt something strange, a dullness almost.

“You’re not Purity,” he growled, anger and rage starting to color his voice.

How? There was no way that I was that obvious!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, ended up working on an 8k chapter of Tower of Adamant so this story was put on the back burner for a little while.


	6. Spiralling (Out Of) Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our SI tries to fight Victor and does some introspection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sorry for the slight wait (well more than slight, half a month is really inexcusable, sorry). I was focused on Tower of Adamant and then had to travel to be a witness for a betrothal ceremony. Discovered that there was no way I could write in a moving car. Anyways, I hope you all like this chapter! I really waffled around what I needed to do and where I wanted to take this story and I worry that kind of shows through in a less than pleasing way in-story.

Dimly, I could hear an analog clock ticking in the hallway as the heavy door slid closed with glacial, almost agonizing, slowness.

My eyes were locked with the man’s, they were a cold blue. His arm slid into his red jacket, which I had mistaken for a shirt a moment before.

Immediately, the thought of denying the accusation sprang to my mind, but at the same moment, such an idea brought a deep chill to my being. I didn’t want to be Purity, not really. At the same time, the element of surprise was completely lost if I didn’t do anything.

“How could you tell?” I asked instead, voice far higher-pitched than I intended. I rocked in place on the bed, almost wishing I could dive behind it. Some instinct seemed to urge me to freeze, stay in place.

A length of black metal pulled free from under his jacket. My eyes immediately dropped to it. I had seen plenty of guns throughout my life, so I was easily able to recognize exactly what it was. It was a shock, though, to see one in such a setting. Unlike my older brother, I wasn’t the kind of person that could immediately identify a weapon by sight alone. My knowledge extended more toward the hallmarks of the weapon world. I could recognize an AR-15 or an AK, but that was about it. I knew other guns existed, and even knew some of their names but the ability to match names to features was beyond me.

Almost every time I had ever seen a gun was in a controlled environment. A relaxed environment, where it was brushed off under the veneer of normalcy. This was different, this gun was turned toward me, and that was different. My heart was thundering in my chest, beating painfully. I could hear my pulse in my ears. Roaring, faster and faster.

I could feel a boiling light under my skin, like sunlight but constrained, threatening to erupt. However, it felt drained, almost distant. I could feel the fluorescent light overhead, feel its light on my bare skin.

I knew my eyes were wide, almost unblinkingly staring at the person in front of me. There was a question burning inside of me, just barely caressing my thoughts. I knew Purity was a breaker, or at least had a breaker component that protected her. Otherwise, she would’ve been shot from the sky long ago. She was a blazing beacon of light, after all.

The question that lingered, that threatened to spill over into the real world, was whether I could activate my power before the man in front of me realized I was making a go for it.

The pistol wasn’t quite raised toward me, he was almost wary. It was brandished, almost like a totem, between the two of us, and then I realized something else. He was afraid of me.

“What have you done with Purity?” he asked, almost gesticulating with the gun but not quite. An aborted gesture, dead before it could even complete itself. His blue eyes underneath the domino mask were intense and cold, the skin around his eyes tight with stress. His face twitched, something like pain, or maybe irritation flickering beneath them. His body seeming almost shaky.

I rocked again, my pulse still thundering in my ears. My fists were balled around the paper underneath them, tearing gouges slowly.

I could hear the clock in the hallway, tick-tock.

That was when I realized with a kind of dreadful clarity that he didn’t know what I was. This was the world of Worm. They had the Butcher. They had masters like Regent, or would he be known as Hijack in this time period?

Masters like Pretender.

Somehow he knew, on sight, that I wasn’t Purity, but that didn’t give me any idea on how I had possessed her. It was cold comfort because I didn’t know how I possessed her either.

My pulse was beating faster than it ever had. A dull roar, that made me twitchy. I felt on edge. Adrenaline shooting down my body, making it shake. Like the seconds counting down before a bid. Adrenaline shakes.

I couldn’t say I didn’t know. It would mean that I was new, and that was something I couldn’t afford for him, whoever he was, to know. I had dealt with enough people that I knew I needed to keep some cards close to my chest.

“I am Purity,” I settled on saying, even though moments ago I had decried the very notion of continuing to use her nom de guerre. Her identity. I had already given away the fact I wasn’t her, but I could reach, attempt to rattle him somewhat, see what he could let slip.

He grimaced, one fist starting to clench. The other still held the gun, not quite pointed at me, but ready to do so.

“No,” he replied, voice tight, “You’re not. What have you done with Purity?”

It was the third time he asked. I wasn’t some kind of fae, I knew that for certain, I was human, thank you very much, but I still felt there was some kind of significance to the question being asked three times.

My feet touched the ground, the chill radiating upward from the linoleum tiles. Blue and white squares, smooth and clean under my cold feet. The man hadn’t moved, except a tensing of his leg muscles. I could almost feel the desire in his head to shoot me. For his arm to snap forward in a smooth gesture, releasing the tension that kept his gun hand pointed subtly away.

“You’re right,” I acquiesced, voice still high, almost shrill in the quiet of the night ward, “I’m not Purity.”

His face twitched, what little I could see under the domino mask that shrouded everything but his eyes. The door, hissing slowly as it did, finally clicked shut. He and I were alone, standing in the light of the fluorescent bulb overhead.

He stepped sideways, tilting his body away from me. He was no longer facing me head-on, instead, he was reducing his profile, reducing the size of his body as a target. I had seen such a stance often enough when I used to do martial arts, forced to do so by my parents. I would much rather have taken Brazilian Jiu-jitsu like my sisters, but no, I was stuck with Kempo.

My pulse was slowing down. Somehow getting my feet on the cold floor seemed to center me, keep my panic from pulsing through my body. I still felt slightly lightheaded, my breath shallow. I made a conscious effort to slow my breathing, taking a deeper breath in.

“Who are you?” I asked instead of saying something asinine like ‘Purity is mine now.’ Just the idea of saying something like that, letting those syllables pass through my lips felt like defilement. Acceptance of the ordeal thrust upon me. Normalizing what was horrific. Bringing humor into such a moment, inflicting it, was a perversion of what had occurred. I was sickened that the idea had even passed through my mind, even reduced to a fleeting thought.

“Victor,” His words were curt, sharp and short. My thoughts ground to a halt since that was a name I did recognize. Victor the skill-vampire. Who could drain all my skills if I stayed in proximity for too long? I did have skills worth draining. Some I could relearn, piano for one. Others I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have the time to relearn the atrophied Kempo skill my parent's hoisted upon me. Losing my skill in writing would be a death knell for someone that was still determined to cling stubbornly to the dream of being an author.

I could see the moment that he realized I had made a decision. The gun started to climb upward, almost glacially slowly. The air smelled sharp, almost earthy. For the life of me, I couldn’t determine what it was.

The light started to burst from my body, shining through my clothes. I could feel the immediate drain. The sensation of trying to draw too much, siphon from a reservoir that was almost depleted. It worked fine. I could feel my panic and exhaustion bleed into the white light illuminating me.

There was a sharp crack, splitting the air, echoing in the room. Something hard smacked into my chest, on the right side, just above my breast and I stumbled backward. My arm came up, almost in a warding gesture. I could somehow feel my heart in my chest, a sharp palpitation. It seized for a moment or seemed to, and then a white double helix of shining light sprung from my hand, seeming to germinate from my nails.

I rocked backward, flinching away from a sudden pain running down my arm. My eyes were wide open, too wide, but at the same time, I couldn’t see. In an old book, I had once heard that when in a fight you needed to focus on nothing and hence see everything. It was the kind of thing that made me exhale forcefully in exasperation at the time, and think ‘that was easier said than done.’

Victor wasn’t where I thought he was, my helix light punched through the wall behind where he had been, and the wall behind that and into the floor and the wall and floor beneath that. For a moment, I could only gape in disbelief, and then like a punch to the gut I realized I had released what was akin to an artillery blast in a hospital. A hospital where people went to be helped.

Fuck.

I slowly panned my gaze around the room, noting the damage. The sheer destruction I had wrought. There was no Victor, just a slowly shutting pneumatic door. It was almost a metaphor for my failure, if I wanted to be poetic.

I could smell blood again, metallic and heady. My vision swam. I glanced down, and I could feel more than see the bullet wound in my shoulder. My hand came up, pressing against my luminescence. I could feel something wet beneath my glowing fingers. I had just been shot and I had also just destroyed a portion of the hospital. I averted my eyes, if I looked at it, saw the blood in person, there would be no way I could remain standing. I felt light-headed, even more so than before. Like I was sinking and had no lifeline, fingers clutching at a phantom.

Even worse, Victor got away. I had no idea if he had stolen anything from me. I vaguely remembered that skills could still return overtime after he stole them, but that might’ve been fanon rather than canon. There was a fanfiction I read once where Taylor had Victor’s power and if I recalled correctly her skill-stealing seemed mighty permanent. Half descending back into the grips of hysteria I struggled to recall whether that had been the author’s unique twist to the story or whether Victor’s power worked like that in the actual Worm.

Either way, my time was limited. The Empire 88 would be after me in full force for daring to steal a member of their gang away from them, nonetheless the fact that I was pregnant with the daughter of Kaiser. I had no doubt that they’d reach out to the other gangs and even the Protectorate, branding me as a Master.

None would like the idea that someone could slip into another’s body. It didn’t matter the fact that I had no idea how I had done it in the first place. Just the first notion that I could do it would have everyone up in arms. People saw Heartbreaker as horrific. Masters were the real boogeymen of the Worm-verse. Take Canary for one.

There was no way I could actually go against the Empire as I was now. I had no idea where they lived. Heck, I had no idea where I lived, for that matter. My feet, one clothed, the other bare carried me into the hallway. A shrill fire alarm started up, making me wince and raise my hands to my ears.

Still clutching at my ears I stared down one length of the hallway. There were two lumps of blue at the far end, right near the stairwell. For a moment I just squinted at them, at a loss for what they were supposed to be. It was like a splash of cold water down my back, sending goosebumps up my arms that I realized I was looking at two bodies. Police officers. They lay still, almost impossibly still. Suppressing a shiver and my gorge which threatened to erupt from my mouth again, the acid burning the back of my throat, I turned to look down the hallway the other way.

As I expected Victor wasn’t anywhere in sight. I had doubted he would be, he was a bad matchup for Purity, even in the close quarters of the hospital. Still, it rankled at me, but faced with the dead bodies I had just seen I had to consider something. Would I have been actually able to stop him? Actually able to beat, no, kill him to preserve the element of surprise. Was that worth killing a man over?

Earlier, I had whispered to myself that I intended to kill Kaiser. However, my performance, barely able to mark a glorified goon with immense collateral damage, kind of cast doubt on my ability to effectively kill him. Furthermore, I had never killed anything bigger than a bug or spider in real life, what made me think I could kill a man?

In a moment of passion, when my blood was up, I think maybe I could. Maybe I could kill someone. Kill Kaiser. I knew he was bad, almost irredeemable. He ran a racist gang that killed people. He was a danger to me, and based on his portrayal would stay a danger until he died. He desired control. I was aberrant to his control, my existence would be a direct flaunting that I had bested the Empire as long as I lived. It was a loss of face a gang leader could not ignore. That his second-in-command was removed without any response would be anathema to him.

I frowned, the expression feeling strangely heavy on my face. God, I felt tired. I rubbed my eyes, with one hand. Either Kaiser had to die or I needed to leave Brockton Bay, that much was clear.

The Protectorate remained as an option. That thought slipped across my mind again. I was powerful. Yet my position as a maybe-Master would work against me. They would always be left to wonder whether I could slip into another body if I willed it. The Butcher turned toward espionage. I would be heading into a glorified cage. Gilded but barred. I would have no freedom whatsoever.

I leaned against the wall, feeling the pebbled texture of the wallpaper beneath my fingers and let out a painful sigh, more moan of agonized discomfort than despondence. My fingers left a red stain on the white wall, a red handprint on a field of purity. I breathed in deeply again, the air tasted sour almost.

The glow died around my body, as I started to walk away, heading toward the stairwell and the bodies in front of it. There still remained a chance I could somehow take out Victor if I could catch him. I needed to try. The prospect of being known as a Master was, by far, the worst thing that could happen.

That was it. The slap of my bare foot on linoleum. The flickering lights around me, the shrill scream of the fire alarms. I had choices to make and none of them were going to be pleasant.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Some of you might remember my last try at a Worm SI. I hope this one goes better.


End file.
